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Meaculpa
Another meagre result! Can we sustain this level of failure for much longer (harhar), especially surrounded by members whose attention span is a mere second? There was an incident with a primed old lady (16 and 1/2) recently in which we showed her the goods (she said she wanted them back after we proposed to carry her groceries); later, we fortunately remembered to draw on the 'mutual flirtation' defence as read in the Durham Times (week of June 18, 2010), so we too were assured by the courts that we got put on some register for good behaviour. It is laudable that the justice system is so understanding of acts of genuine kindness. We welcome any kind of gift, although it becomes quite the drag when it is permanently attached to our ankle. Other events this week come in large and small sizes. We present them to you according to the adapted Bristol Stool Scale (for exclusive tavistock use, henceforth tBSS), which lists said items from 1-7. 1 stands for 'bearably dense', 3 for 'catastrophical brown panique' (CBP), while 7 is as yet unknown (whatever is more intense than 'green terror' caused by Presidential IBS). Firstly, there was a visit to the country, more specifically to a 'pond' (the correct term for any garden water that can be traversed by natural means in under an hour); 'an 'oligotrophic lake' whose 'catchment area' needed prodding with a 'secchi disc' to make sure no nutrients went unnoticed' (The Treasurer); a 'large swimming pool' of terrible coldness, whose relative depths caused feelings of fear, self-loathing and abandonment (Intern), or a beach for poncing around on, claiming his shrinkage was caused by the lake's vapours (The Secretary). Now, there was more to this excursion than meets the eye, although ours fell on some lovely ladies, or perhaps some sheep reflected in the window of a parked car. One can never be sure with these things, especially given that the water monster of our youth turned out to be a snorkling pervert from Keswick, who takes to the waters after work. In the end, this afternoon event seemed to cause all sorts of anxiety, but a general density was maintained. It was only later that the bbq'd meats would hit the proverbial fan in their digested fashion. tBSS value: 1.5: rapidly losing density, though still coloured by a combination of bile and bilirubin ('brown-ish' to the layman) But enough of innocent pleasures. A second or two later, the shots were coming in hard and fast. We had forgotten to watch our backs for said amount of time, and instantly the rozzers were hot on our tails. We were wearing them for no reason in particular, but they looked proper the Treasurer said. It was the local dress he said. After he further claimed to have been bankrupted by his own bank, he was given over to calculations - his particular way of a 'soul search'. We all knew the end of that road: in the woods, without drink or decency. In an attempt to shake off the Cumbrian forces, we went on what you could call a 'defensive' rampage: our best frocks on our backs, members rampant, Clyde up in our grill, and ready to receive acts of violence to our persons. Meanwhile, Clyde was shouting in our left ears, as he was holding on for dear life. We had given him the option of a boring 'in-car seat', or the 'rooftop recliner'. Eventually, a move towards the locals' establishments was made of which there were many, but all named after objects (crown) or animals (fish). Once inside, Clyde pointed a finger at a singing dwarf, a move displaying rather poor judgment if you ask us, since there were a lot far shorter persons around (technically referred to as 'children'). First, they didn't accept our currency (a few brass buttons wrested from the Intern's boating jacket which we had personally engraved with the Queen's likeness), then the rotters charged us through the nose, rather painfully (with a cocktail stick). It all ended with a coded message, although it was overheard and interpreted as a not-so-veiled condemnation of the locale ('Why so boorish?'); to us in the know however, it meant 'let's get out of here before they find out about our pants status ('commando' for four days)'. The result was nonetheless the same. Unfortunately for our increasingly sore buttocks and faces, as well as our reputations, this process was repeated a number of times (6). We soon got the point, and chose the 'preemptive war doctrine' by taking turns escorting each other out of each individual establishment, ultimately into the countryside (the land behind the dry-stone walls). Morale was not at a high. Note: after this debacle, it has taken a while to reestablish any intelligible contact with the Treasurer - who is now heavily coding all his conversations, to the extent that he was last seen reciting numbers to his local gazetteer. tBSS value: 2.3: towards the BP (essay on morals), coloured-in shabbily by the hand of a toddler (outside the lines). Pow! Some weird events were now following in rapid succession, and no one was taking the blame. All I can say is that at one point in time we were wandering around a local estate with a torch, but it was not lighted.